You know the old saying: you can lead a horse to dance music, but you can’t make it sign up for a Beatport account. Same goes for people — four on the floor just doesn’t click with everyone.

A common hang-up among house haters is the apparent absence of the artist within the electronics. Whether it’s naive or not, there exists an unconsciously defended difference for many between the mark of the maker and the click of the mouse. Accidental purists: prepare to lighten up. Ay Ay Ay, the second full-length effort from Chilean-born, German-raised Matias Aguayo (who now splits time between Buenos Aires and Paris) is, in source and spirit, one of the most human dance-pop records of the year. Even more so than on his stunning 2005 debut, Are You Really Lost?, Aguayo blends a finicky minimalist streak with loads of goofball charm (not unlike new Yacht, or old Beck).

He almost completely jettisons oonst-oonst metrics in favor of long stretches of classy continent-hopping rhythms — “Me Vuelvo Loca” and “Juanita” channel the energy of Aguayo’s battery-powered “bumbumbox” parties in the streets of Buenos Aires (check SoundCloud for those mixes), whereas “Koro Koro” conjures a Lagos lounge. But though Ay Ay Ay benefits from Aguayo’s amply stamped passport, its real appeal is his inescapable personality — some of these songs sound like things he’d hum and tap on an armrest while waiting for a flight. Entire rhythm sections are made from his voice, and its timbre becomes a signature texture of the album instead of amateurish beatbox gimmickry. It’s not just that Aguayo replaces anonymity with idiosyncrasy — Ay Ay Ay is the work of a producer in his prime, and an artist who can barely contain himself.

Tedium and enchantment Can it be a good sign when a curator writes that the artist he's featuring in her first US museum survey "has laid bare the creative act in all its tedium and enchantment for over two decades"?

Eva Hesse at the ICA and Tory Fair at the deCordova Hesse's ability to imbue her art with body and blood and gravity anticipated the kinder, gentler minimalism of today's Anish Kapoor, Rachel Whiteread, and Roni Horn, as well as the fleshy fairy-tale figures of Kiki Smith. Boston sculptor Tory Fair has descended from Smith's family tree, with glossy resin or lumpy rubber casts of her own nude body uncannily sprouting vines and flowers.

BOSTON PRIDE WEEK: OFF THE MAP | June 07, 2010 We may seem a little cranky, but us local gayfolk just love a parade, and we’re actually heartened by this annual influx of brothers and sisters from every state of New England and every letter of our ever-expanding acronym.

THE NEW GAY BARS | June 02, 2010 If I may channel the late, great Estelle Getty for a moment: picture it, Provincetown, 2009, a dashing young man with no discernible tan and an iffy T-Mobile signal languishes bored upon the sprawling patio of the Boatslip Resort.

ARIEL PINK’S HAUNTED GRAFFITI | BEFORE TODAY | June 01, 2010 If the gradual polishing of Ariel Pink’s sound — and it’s not all that much more polished — puts his loyalists at odds with his albums, I count that as good news.

MORE THAN HUMAN | May 26, 2010 It’s hard to talk about Janelle Monáe when your jaw’s fallen off.